RIVER CITY JOURNAL: ST. JUDE HANDLES HOPLESS CASES; WHO'S IN HCARGE OF LOST GLOVES?

I should be an expert on this. I have spent a good part of my life explaining why the gloves I had on this morning aren't with me tonight.

We were caught in a huge display of hats, mufflers and gloves, my wife and I. Some were for women, a lot were for children and quite possibly some of them might have been suitable for men.

This visit to the store came after a quick trip to St. Louis a couple of weeks ago. While there, my wife's car decided to throw a fit. Just as we were getting ready to head home, the car decided not to start.

We've already discussed, gentle readers, how I believe inanimate objects have brains and make crucial decisions that affect my life. Maybe they don't mess with you. Maybe you don't pay any attention if they do. But I figure I spend as much time with cranky cars as I ever did with cranky sons.

Not only that, until just a few years ago I was stronger than my sons and I will still swear to anyone that I am taller than either of my sons, although they disagree.

Well, here we were in an unfamiliar part of the city with a car with 128,000 miles on the odometer and a dead battery under the hood.

Actually, I can't say for sure the battery was dead. That shows you how much I know about cars. I wouldn't even have remembered the battery is under the hood, except my wife's car is an expert at killing batteries.

And don't give me any guff about where else would a battery be but under the hood. Thirty-five years ago, the first car we bought was a VW Bug, and the battery was under the seat. On certain bumpy roads, you could get quite a jolt if you didn't watch out.

My wife has had more than her share of problems with this car's battery. The last time she called the tow truck -- just a few weeks earlier she was shown the old trick of pouring Coca-Cola over the battery terminals. I don't know if Pepsi or Mountain Dew would work or not. Every time I've seen anyone do it, the beverage of choice was Coke.

Cars have changed a lot since Coke would clean corrosion off of battery terminals. Every time I take my car in for an oil change, I tell the folks I want an oil change and lube. Finally, one of the attendants broke down and told me there is no way to lube my car. "It's a sealed system," he said.

I haven't a clue what that means. To be honest, I'm not even sure what a lube is. But all my life oil change and lube have gone together like mashed potatoes and gravy. It's hard to break some habits.

My wife trudged across a sizable parking lot to a fast-food restaurant to buy some Coke. We had already called a tow truck, but we thought we might as well give Coke a try. It was getting cold, so I put on my jacket, which had my nice black dress gloves in one pocket.

My younger son gave me those gloves, and this is the only pair of gloves I've ever held on to for any length of time. I'm as bad about losing gloves as a toddler. I like those gloves. They're warm. They're comfortable. And they were a gift from a son. Everyone's amazed I still have them.

I did what I thought I was supposed to do with the Coke. It did something to the battery, because the locks on the car doors started jumping up and down. But the car wouldn't start.

When the tow truck arrived, the driver got a horror-stricken look on his face. Oh, no! he said. You've got a leak!

No, I said, it's just Coke.

He was pretty relieved, and we followed him back to his shop where a new battery was installed. The mechanic put Vasoline on the new battery's terminals. Probably another old wives' tale.

On the way home, we drank the rest of the Coke. It was warm, and I got bubbles in my nose.

But wait. That's not all.

The next morning I started looking for my gloves. I couldn't find them. I searched my wife's car. I asked my wife if she knew where they were. She rolled her eyes. Sure enough, I had lost another pair of gloves.

In the store, with literally hundreds of pairs of gloves to choose from, I didn't see what I wanted. But I did see a display of those clip-on strings that you use to keep your child's mittens with his coat.

"Look," I said, "maybe we should get these too."

My wife nodded. She didn't see I was trying to make a joke.

We bought another pair of gloves. They're OK, but they're not nearly so nice as the one's my son gave me. I wore them to work the next day, glad to have something to keep my hands warm.

I guess my wife came home for lunch. Anyway, when I came home from work that evening, my old black gloves were on the kitchen breakfast bar. It took a minute to sink in, but I finally realized these were the missing gloves.

Later, I asked my wife: Where did you find the gloves?

In her car, she said, in front of the seat.

Oh, I said.

It doesn't pay to drag out some conversations.

She mentioned something about how we should have bought those mitten clips.

Now I feel like a plutocrat. I have two whole pairs of gloves at the same time.

Probably not for long.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.